Page 3 of The City Of Fractured Memory

He kneels down beside me and shakes his head. “I had the same thought, but it’s impossible for someone to have staged this murder. It seems impossible anyone could have murdered her at all, actually.”

Here we go with the dramatics again…

“Out with it Xavier, you know riddles bore me,” I snap.

He huffs a sigh. “The doors and windows were all locked from the inside. No one has left this house since she died. We’ve done some basic tests and they have already confirmed the blood here on the floor is hers. But since she doesn’t have a weapon on her person or any injuries we can see, we can determine it’s likely she didn’t kill herself.”

My eyes widen as my mind revels over the information. “So, you’re saying that this woman was somehow murdered in a locked room, with no way in or out, and with no murder weapon or wound?”

Xavier’s smile turns feral. “Yeah. Told you you’d love this one.”

Two

Oh, this just got interesting.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. There was a time I would’ve felt guilty for my delight, but I rarely feel much of any emotion these days. Using magic has taken so much from me already, but I have no choice. There are too many situations that call for it, and I can't function without it, let alone do my job. I swallow hard, knowing what I have to do next, but I don’t want Xavier involved in my illegal activities any more than he already is.

“I need a moment alone so I can think,” I murmur, and he shifts to his feet with a frown.

“Two minutes,” he growls, giving me a pointed look before he exits the house. We both know what I’m about to do, and I know he hates the risk, but we also both know we won’t get anywhere in this investigation unless I do it.

Once Xavier is gone, I glance around to make certain I’m alone. Memorticians are some of the only mortals in the city who are given special dispensation to use magic to retrieve and store their memories as a way of collecting irrefutable evidence, and since I am most definitely not one––and, quite frankly, not in the mood to be imprisoned––I make sure no one is watching.

The tremor in my jaw is the only thing that hints of the weight of what I’m about to do. I rub my talisman three times and the constant noise in my head I’m always subjected to quiets down. From beneath my coat I draw a narrow circlet of silver wire, inlaid with runes so old they shimmer faintly of their own accord. I set the circlet against my temples and at once, the air grows heavy.

Mortal magic is banned for good reason.

A pressure builds behind my eyes, pulling, not just at the moment I want to preserve, but at everything. Lesser mortals risk losing themselves to the overwhelming magic, but I’m strong enough not to drown in it. Images from the present scene swim up––the victim’s eyes, glassy and wrong, the small tattoo on the back of her wrist, the faint mark on her temple like a faded brand. My magic magnifies not only that moment, but everything connected to it, the adjacent memories of my walk over here and the cottage perimeter bleeding into the thread as I start pulling. But they come tangled with things I don’t mean to give up––my father’s laughter, the taste of cinnamon bread in winter…suddenly my Shadow looms through my memories and I startle, almost losing the thread. I didn’t mean to think of it.

That slip up will cost me.

My breath catches as the magic feeds. The runes pulse with a slow, hungry heartbeat, leeching both my memories and the ache they carry. I sway, feeling parts of myself slip away like ink bleeding into water. The scene around me dulls and I exhale sharply, drawing the shimmering thread of the memory out of my mind. It hovers in the air between my palms, a twisting ribbon of light, tinted faintly with the colours of my emotions, and I push it into the waiting crystal phial at my belt.

When I finally remove the circlet, my hands are cold, my thoughts oddly hollow. I look down at the corpse again and realise with a creeping chill that I can’t remember why Xavier called me here so desperately. Mindweaving spells use a dangerous amount of power to perform, and the circlet aids me well in allowing me to use less power than I would have to if I’d done it with my bare hands, but it doesn’t shield me completely from the consequences of wielding it. The magic draws on emotional resonance to anchor and extract memories, but the memories are not static––they’re tangled with the feelings, sensory details, and personal meaning tied to them. Removing a memory means tearing away those threads. The stronger the emotion, the more power the magic yields, and the greater the loss to the caster’s soul.

It’s a risk I take every time I wield it, whether I’m Mindweaving for cases or using magic to calm my racing mind or to take away the lingering pain of my joints. Before my parents died, they taught me as a child how to harness this power in the safest way possible, but it is never without risk. And as I sit here now, desperately trying to recollect the facts of the case Xavier told me, I start to wonder if that risk may be becoming too much. I don’t want to end up a completely soulless husk of a mortal, banished to live out the rest of my days in the lawless quarter of Aethermere. I shudder at the thought and clamber unsteadily to my feet. I need to get home to Stryx as soon as I can.

As I turn to leave, a familiar broad shadow falls across the floor. Seconds later, Maevick appears, his usually smug expression tempered, his eyes dark, numb. Crime has been on the rise in recent weeks, and given his vacant expression, I can only assume he’s been working overtime with his magic. The typical taunts I reserve for his usually cocky ass don’t rise to my lips, and I feel a sort of kinship with him for a moment.

He has no idea I know exactly how he feels.

I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but he beats me to it.

“Messing with my crime scene again, Wren? When will you learn that no one wants you around?” he sneers, stepping forward into my space.

Okay, the kinship has sailed. That was a brief voyage.

Once again, I’m interrupted before I can speak as Xavier comes charging into the room, his fists curled.

“For your information, Maevick, I asked her here. So back off.”

I roll my eyes at the pair of them. I’m so tired of men talking over me like I can’t fight my own battles. People often mistake me as being weak and stupid, thanks to my clumsy broken joints, and the fact that I’m also a woman seems to only ever exacerbate the issue. Quite frankly, I’m sick of it.

“She’s bad news, Xavier. The Gods are no doubt furious at her proven misdeeds,” he growls, raking his eyes over me with disdain before landing back on my friend.

“What makes you think I give a fuck what the Gods think?” I hiss. He yelps and taps his temple three times, begging forgiveness to the Gods under his breath, a stupid ritual shared by many when in the presence of so-called blasphemy.

I shake my head and barge past them without another word, escaping into the cool, brisk air of the night with Xavier hot on my heels.